


Stars Down Your Throat

by thetalkingcrocus



Category: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 17:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetalkingcrocus/pseuds/thetalkingcrocus
Summary: “Because he will grip you bythe shoulders and wrenchyou around and he will bringhis bristly mouth to yours and blowstarsdown your throatuntilyou are so fulloflight”- You Better Not Cry by Augusten Burroughs





	Stars Down Your Throat

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr April 26 2013.

You remember the first time you talked to him, all brash and bluffing, peacock struts and words woven into a beautiful web, a web his wind blew right through to the self you hid behind sarcasm and hunched shoulders. An appointment, did he have an appointment? And you thought, privately to yourself, that you would’ve let him in without one. And, maybe this is just how you remember it now, but you could already see the stars, stars and fire and whiskey burning up inside him, bubbling out those bright eyes and seeping from that devilish grin and the stars radiated their light for miles around, you’d swear it, every man on the ward would swear it, you’re sure, but especially you.  Light bubbled from him like words from you, only he didn’t use his hands to help get it out the way you did, he just let it overflow, humming on his skin like a static shock.

 

And you remember his calloused palm on yours, and the contrast between the work-reddened skin and yours and your own hand looking like he could break it without even trying and knowing somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach that he wouldn’t. You remember the smoke of the cigarette and the fire inside him and his grin and his cap, perched on that red hair like a medal and you remember your hands as you talked to him, those goddamn lady’s hands again, reaching up in gestures higher than normal like they wanted to grab that cap just to have a part of him.

 

He was the man who rode the storm, sat upon the crests of waves and kept control and the rest of you mere mortals attended to him because he was a magnet, and you knew, you knew that it was more than just his handsome grin and broad chest and that goddamn kindness, you knew it was more than that. You knew it because the others, the other men they were as crazy for him as you albeit not in the same way; it wasn’t just you being one of them queers, it was Mack being Mack, a beautiful and dangerous thing, a wildfire and an ocean current and some big bird riding the storm and you were powerless.

 

Except that’s not true. You had plenty of power and you know it because he sat you down and he told you so he told you that there was nothing wronger (you corrected him, and he shot you a capital L look and shook his head in a gesture that your poor battered heart leaped to label as affection) with you than with any other asshole out on the street and that was when he gripped your arm in his big strong hand and your rabbit, your little rabbit heart almost stopped beating because here was this man, this beast, and he had you at his mercy and then his eyes were into yours, connected in the deepest way and his lips were on yours and you remember every second after that. His face was rough with stubble and the raw masculinity of R.P. McMurphy. His lips were softer than you thought they’d be. You felt a star float through your connected mouths and settle just over your heart and your stomach twisted because oh, hell, this place was supposed to make you better, not worse.

 

Those were the golden days, the best times when things hadn’t started to go downhill yet. It was you and him and you’d stay up late, smoking cigarettes and sparring with your words while he danced with his and smiling, smiling, smiling not just with your face but with your eyes and the stars shone right on through. You hadn’t smiled in ages, not sincerely, and you hadn’t  _glowed_  in many, many more.

 

You thought then, in an idle sort of way that Vera was a knife and Mack was whiskey and both were killing you slowly in very different ways and you’ve changed your mind since because whiskey doesn’t leave scars and Mack sure as hell did, scar tissue all over your beating heart and scar tissue where the stars fused to your insides and you ripped them out.

 

You knew it had gotten bad when you found that you didn’t care anymore; you just couldn’t bring yourself to care and so you became McMurphy’s right hand man and you lounged at his side like an attendant and he teased you for it and bit your lips swollen when he kissed you and you never loved anyone as much before or since. You remember the first time he touched you and the moments you stole, every single damned one and sometimes you’re glad you do and sometimes you wish you could purge every memory of him, of this man who confirmed your worst fears and then – and then you don’t even want to think about and then, not now. You remember the times before that though with fondness as the stars multiplied between you and bloomed in your torso, filling up your lungs until you’re breathing pure light, until your blood is illuminated and you’re sure if anyone looked at you they could see all your bones. Mack does, you know that much, and he stays with you anyways, stays with your fluttering hands and bitter words and the way you can weave letters into a temptation beyond anyone Mack has ever known and you know because he told you so among kisses to your neck. He told you that he’d only ever loved women before and you arched an eyebrow and he said that even with competition you would be the best man and you melted just then into his chest and his touch and into the him-ness that you grew to crave and stars bloomed at your pulse points and you kissed him again in the dark. He told you that you ensnared him with your words and those goddamn hands and he said the latter part like a compliment and you knew right then just how bad you had it.

 

You remember the dimming of the stars as he gave more and more of them to every single one of you and you couldn’t transfer them back fast enough and Ratched stole them and she didn’t even keep them inside her like the rest of you she just ground them up under her heel on the tile floor and Mack went on and the rest of you glowed with a light you did not feel.

 

You remember the jealousy when Candy kissed him full on the mouth and the repayment he gave you later among hospital beds and he tasted of whiskey and cherry and fire and he tasted like his eyes looked when they had been brighter and he was  _beautiful_  and he was yours and he said so in a bold whisper, bold not for the tone but for what he admitted, and you have never treasured a sound or a memory more in your life. He was yours no matter how many women he fucked or men he bickered with and a part of him always would be and you knew that most securely as you knew that bad things would come in the morning.

 

You wanted him to go like you had never wanted anything except perhaps McMurphy himself and it was at that moment you realized you’d die for him and several days later when you realized that you wouldn’t get the chance and all at once your stars, the ones he gave you, dimmed, and the absence of them and of him weighed heavy on your little heart and your hands fluttered, unsure, and they missed his skin as much as the rest of you.

 

He was dead and you were not and you would be in love with him for the rest of your life and sometimes you’re comforted by knowing that, in his way, his damned McMurphy way, he loved you too.

 

If you’re lucky, according to your pastor or, really, Vera’s pastor, you sinners will be reunited.  You’ll burn in hell together with the flames in his eyes and the light shining through yours.

 

You kept the stars he gave you with the pieces of your heart and a battered motorcycle cap in a box labeled with his name because even now, you’re  _his_.


End file.
